


A Common Thread

by creativetherapy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Rewrite, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Healing, Historical Fantasy, Historical Reference, History, Hogwarts Founders Era, Hufflepuff, Loyalty, Magic, Medieval Period, Ravenclaw, Rowena Raveclaw, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slytherin, Strong Women, Tenth century, Vikings, War, hardship, historical fiction - Freeform, non-canon elements, past trauma, strong helga hufflepuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativetherapy/pseuds/creativetherapy
Summary: It is the tenth century, and unrest cuts through the supposedly unified England. Christianity is on the rise, leaving those with magic in the grip of an ever-tightening noose. It is in this world that four unlikely friends dare to dream of a better future for their people.Founders era with some adjustments to Canon to make slightly more historical sense. Focus on creating dynamic and active characters, especially Helga, who I feel is often underserved in fics.Chapters include historical notes for those who are interested. Because history.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet a young man the monks call Lazarus.

Spring had come early. The sun shown with its first early, warm light of day, illuminating the walls of the monastary in muted hues of pink and gold. The breeze wafted gently, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of early wildflowers and the chirping of new birds. In the middle of the ancient courtyard, a youth sat on an old stone bench. Not yet a man, but no longer a boy, he was fair of face and form. Tall and straight, he sat with his blue eyes closed, the breeze playing at the light curls at his forehead.

A rustle in the grass, and the young man opened an eye. A little snake, quite small and harmless, slithered through the grass along courtyard wall, lifting its head as it stretched itself against the priory. It was attempting to warm itself, the boy knew, against the sunsoaked stone, but to him, it looked as though the little beast were trying with valiant effort to escape by scaling the wall. The thought amused him. He smiled as he watched the little creature try, stretch, fall, and try again.

His smile broadened. He opened his mouth, as if to speak to the creature.

"There you are, Lazarus." A familiar voice startled him from his revery and the boy turned. A squat monk, dressed in heavy crude robes stood glowering from the entrance to the courtyard, in the shadow of the monastary.

"Father Augustus." Young Lazarus greeted his elder. "I was just sitting -"

"The Lord will punish your idleness, boy." The weathered man warned, wagging knobby finger at the young man.

"Does he not command us to sit in quiet?" Lazarus replied. "To meditate upon him?"

The priest glowered.

"God will take you for insolence, too." He grunted. "The fathers are hungry. You will report to the kitchen and fetch up food. Apples and milk, and bread if it is to be found."

"Yes, Father Augustus." The fair-haired Lazarus nodded dutifully. Father Augustus grunted again and turned, disappearing back into the monastary.

Lazarus sighed, taking a last, longing look at the morning light as the sky over the courtyard shifted from gold to pink to blue. Turning his head back to the clump of grass where the snake had been, he found the space empty. He scanned the length of the wall, but the beast had disappeared. Resigned, he returned to the stoic halls of the priory.


	2. Lumos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salazar meets a stranger and learns he is not alone.

Lazarus' body ached as he trudged down the quiet hallway. The heavy wooden door to the library stood slightly ajar, and the room echoed as he pushed it open. He glanced around. The room was dark. He ventured further into the library. The wooden shelves containing rolls and rolls of parchments and manuscripts stood silently, the fire burned down to barely glowing coals. Lazarus smiled to himself, pulling the apple he had snuck from the kitchen from his sleeve, along with a crust of bread. A wooden pitcher and modest cup stood near a window, illuminated in the grey light of dusk. Lazarus set his food on one of the high, narrow desks and crossed to the pitcher.

He rolled his head and shoulders as he poured the water. The days were getting longer, which meant the monks kept him busier than they did in the winter. His muscles ached, his knees and shins sore from kneeling on cold stone, scrubbing floors, his back in spasms from breaking sod and turning the earth on the south side of the priory for a new garden.

Outside the window, he could make out the shapes of the monks passing through the grounds in the growing darkness. Soon, it would once again be time for prayers, and if he did not meet them in the sanctuary, someone would come looking for him, and then how he would ache. In the meantime, though, these precious few minutes belonged to him, and he would spend it in the dim library with his stolen feast.

A sound like something falling to the ground echoed through the room caused Lazarus to jump, his head whipped away from the window and toward the shelves of parchment, still standing quietly, as if hiding a secret.

"Hello?" He called into the shadows, treading cautiously around the the wall of shelves. He turned the corner, toward the door, which stood silent and closed, as he had left it. His shadow grew against the wall as something stirred the coals in the fire behind him. He turned in time to see the firelight on the floor grow to blazing gold.

"Who's there?" His brow furroughed as he nearly ran to the end of the shelves, toward the center of the room. As he cleared the edge of the shelf, the circular fire pit in the center of the room came into view. In place of the coals, a blazing fire crackled away happily. At the edge of the pit stood a young woman.

"My name is Helga." Though her words were English, her speech betrayed another language. Another upbringing.

"You're a Dane." He said, almost before thinking.

The woman smiled slightly. Clearly, it was not the first time this had been made known to her.

"And Saxon." She assured, raising her eyebrows. "You don't need to be afraid."

Lazarus shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Who could fear you?" His voice caught him off-guard.

She smiled, and despite himself, he smiled, too. She appeared to be about his age, though several inches shorter than he, of average build with hair the color of well-turned earth. Her eyes were green, flecked with amber, and shone merrily in the firelight. She was neither intimidating, nor even wholly remarkable. Indeed, the most remarkable thing about Helga was her presence.

"The monks don't know I am here." She answered his unasked question. "I am come in secret."

"Why are you here?" Unafraid, though still wary of the stranger who seemed to appear from nowhere, he took a step closer to the firelight.

"You tell me." Helga replied simply, as though truly lacked the answer. She turned her attention away from the fire, letting her eyes wander the height of the walls and the corners of the dim room as she walked toward its shelves.

"What is your name?" Helga asked, as she lifted the crust of bread from table upon which it had been placed.

"The monks call me Lazarus." He watched her as she smelled the bread, taking a small bite and screwing her face up in disgust. "After a man, once dead, raised again to life by the Lord Christ."

"And your mother?" Helga asked, looking around the room as if in search of something. "What does she call you?"

She seemed to find what she was looking for in the cup of water left standing on the sill. Lazarus watched curiously as she dropped the crust of bread into it, swirling the cup, holding it close to her face and whispering.

"My mother died when I was young." He told her slowly. "Put to death for heresy, along with my father."

Helga's eyebrows raised with interest and she looked at him over the rim of the cup.

"She called me Salazar." He admitted finally. "Are you come because I am different?"

"Are you different?" Helga asked, lowering the cup from her face and tipping the bread from it. instead of bread, however, she turned out a little cake, dense and moist, into the palm of her hand. She took a bite and beamed in satisfaction.

The young man stared, dumbstruck. She held the cake out to him.

"Would you like some?" She asked, but he simply stared.

"Try it, or I shall be offended." She said in a laughing voice, crossing closer to the fire to give it to him.

He took the cake, turning it over in his hands. He lifted it. It smelled sweet and nutty. Taking a bite, a feeling like summer filled his body.

Helga laughed again, watching his dazed reactions.

"You say you are different, Lazarus of the monks." She began. "How are you different?"

The young man stood silently, turning the mysterious cake over in his hands. The young woman waited patiently, seeming to find nothing at all amiss as the firelight caught in the tangles of earthy-brown hair. She had shared no doubt a secret with him as well as a meal. She seemed to expect similar from him.

"When I was a boy, living in Asturias," He began, breaking a piece from the crumbling loaf, "I was playing one day among the rocks. An asp lunged and bit me."

He chewed the bite and swallowed, choosing his words carefully as the tenseness in his muscles seemed to fade.

"In my surprise and pain, I cried out "why have you done this!?"

Here, Lazarus paused. He watched the stranger listening to him as he took another bite. She had stopped meandering the library, instead standing at the edges of the firelight, her eyes turned fully upon him.

"The serpent understood me, and spoke back." He continued. "He told me 'This is the way of the world.' I had threatened its home - it had to kill me."

He stopped, his eyes fixed on the woman, gauging her reaction critically. She watched him coolly, her expression one of guarded interest.

"But you did not die." She prompted.

"My mother found me. She saved my life." He explained shortly, lowering his head and adding almost to himself, "it was her last act."

His jaw set, his muscles tensed again, and he could not keep the resentment from his voice.

"The monks think I am cursed. They raised me in the hope of showing the power of God - sent me here to serve them."

His blue eyes had become cold and icy. He glared at her accusingly.

"Do you fear me?"

Helga cocked her head, her expression gentle, her tone even.

"No." She shook her head. "I understand now why I was sent to you."

"Sent?" Lazarus frowned. "By whom?"

"Lady Rowena. Daughter of the house of Jackdaw, and married to Lord Aelfred of Ravenclaw."

Helga walked slowly around the fire, toward the forest of parchment. As she moved, Lazarus caught notice of her dress, it's color and cut unlike any he had seen from either Dane or Saxon. The kirtle shone yellow in the firelight, deep and bright like the lady-bedstraw that grew on the hillside. Her surcoat, which he had thought at first to be the color of red rock, was in fact woven of several colors, and seemed to shift as she moved, the light catching it gold, and again purple.

"Jackdaw? Ravenclaw?" He repeated, turning his back to the fireso as to keep eyes on her as she perused the shelves of manuscripts. "There are no such houses."

"Mm." The small noise in her throat gave only the barest clue as to her thoughts. "Do you read, Lazarus, Priest Servant?"

He bristled at the name, but something of the strange woman's presence was a comfort. Speaking to her, he felt oddly safe, as though he were whispering secrets to a shadow.

"I do." He answered.

"What do you read?" She asked, gazing at the stacks of rolled parchment as others might gaze at rubies.

"Galician, the language of Asturias," He replied "English, the language of Saxony, and Latin, the language of God."

"Not the language of the Danes?" She feigned disappointment, grinning, and again he could not stifle a smile.

"No." The young man shook his head.

"But you still have much to learn." Helga reached up to one of the shelves, fingering the scrolls gently, as though they cradled within them mysteries beyond her comprehension.

"What is written here?" She asked, gesturing vaguely around the room.

Lazarus looked about, hardly knowing where to start. "…Everything. History. Poetry, theology -"

"Sorcery?" She asked, fixing him with a keen look.

"Yes." He nodded slowly. The monks kept texts and records of the 'pagan rites' which, he knew, he was supposed to have no knowledge of.

"Show me."

Lazarus stood in the room, near the fire that started on its own, with the stranger who appeared from nowhere and produced cake from a crust of bread.

'Perhaps I am cursed,' he thought. 'Perhaps she is a demon come to test me. Perhaps I am to be dragged to Hell.'

But if she had come to lead him to Hell, he thought, she would find him a willing travel companion. Her manner was easy. Even within these walls of deprivation and silence, she seemed free, and full of a life that lightened not only the lonely library, but his spirit.

"Come." He motioned to her to follow him. She obeyed and he led her to the farthest corner of the room. Behind one of the monk's benches, low to the ground, a heavy wooden box sat under a pile of manuscripts. Moving them aside, he picked up the box, setting it on the floor and opening it. Inside, several scrolls lay bound. He removed one, unfurling it onto the floor, the words illuminated in the moonlight now streaming through the window.

He looked at it for what must have been the hundredth time, relishing in sharing his secret with someone. The woman gazed at the scroll, amazed. It struck Lazarus suddenly that she was fascinated, not by the volume of works in the library, but the very concept of the written word.

"What is written here?" She asked, tracing her finger along the lines.

"It is magic." He told her, smiling with satisfaction. "It is a spell. For light."

She pushed the manuscript toward him, standing. "Show me."

He stood, suddenly finding himself dazed once again. She fixed him with an expectant gaze.

"Show me." She repeated.

Lazarus opened his mouth to object; to insist he had never studied the writing, let alone practiced their contents. But something in her stance, the way she looked at him, told him she would know if he told such a lie.

He cleared his throat, straightening his back and raising his arms. He held his hands before him, palms up. He licked his lips, focusing intently on his palms, feeling the blood rushing through them, the warmth of his own life. Helga watched him, her eyes narrowed, measuring the scene judiciously.

"Lumos!" Lazarus commanded, and instantly, a great spurt of light appeared and filled his palms. It blinded him and he jerked his head away sharply, closing his eyes. A searing pain in his hands caused him to cry out, pull back, and fall to the floor.

The corner was once again dark in the shadow of the shelves, the moonlight bathing the floor in pale blue light.

"Are you hurt?" Helga helped him sit, taking his hands in hers before he could object to examine them.

"It is dangerous to try that sort of magic without a wand." She chided gently, as she smoothed her soft fingertips over his palms, her eyes filled with what he thought was silent laughter.

Lazarus pulled away from her sharply, feeling foolish and annoyed by her presence.

"Your eyes mock me." He spat.

"My eyes see you." She retorted. "It is, after all, their purpose - to see."

"You mock me." He said bitterly, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows on them. The pain in his hands began to recede.

"No." She said earnestly. She placed a hand on his shoulder, craning her head toward him until at last he looked at her, his blue eyes locked with hers, the color of a forest in summer.

"No, I do not mock you, Salazar of Asturias."

It was the first time since he was a child he had heard anyone call him by his name. His expression softened.

"I do not mock you." She said again. "We are the same."

Somewhere outside, an owl hooted its low, mournful call. Helga looked up.

"I must go." She said, rising and looking out the window. "And you are late for prayers. They are looking for you."

"I must know," Salazar stood, too, unwilling to end the converstation but feeling his quest for answers cut short. "What do you mean, we are the same?"

A scuffling in the hall announced the imminent arrival of one of the monks.

"You are not cursed." She assured, hushed and hurriedly, her face alight with excitement. "You are a wizard."

The door opened, and Helga cast a quick glance over her shoulder. They were hidden for the moment by one of the long, tall shelves, but in immediate danger of discovery.

"I will come again." She promised in a whisper.

Salazar shook his head vigorously, grasping her shoulders in a silent plea. He put his finger to his lips, and motioned for her to stay, before ducking around the shelf to head off he intruder.

"Father Augustus." He forced a casual air as he greeted the monk, his heart beating hard within his chest.

Father Augustus stood just inside the room, his jowly face red and screwed up in agitation.

"You, boy-" He began.

"Are late for prayers." Salazar finished. Bowing his head in deference to the priest, his eyes slid to the corner.

He straightened, staring. The corner was empty. The box of spells had been placed back in its hiding place, with no trace of either the scrolls or of Helga.

"What are you looking at!?" Father Augustus nearly screamed.

"Nothing." Salazar turned his attention back to the man in front of him, who quite reminded him now of an ill-tempered ox.

"The devil have you, yet, boy!" Father Augustus growled. "And get you to prayers!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun history stuff! And... other stuff!
> 
> Helga makes reference that she is both Dane and Saxon. At this point in history the Vikings inhabited much of what is now Northwest, Northeast, and Eastern England. The territory in its entirety became known as the Danelaw (or Daneland). Throughout the early medieval era, mixing of Saxons and Danes was common place, especially as the result of brutal and violent raids, where Saxons were often taken as slaves, servants, and even spouses. Helga's immediate heritage is not so violent, as she is the daughter of a Saxon mystic and a Dane seer. Though she speaks English fluently, Norse would have been her primary language, having originally lived much farther into the Danelaw than she does now. More will be revealed about her past later.
> 
> Salazar makes mention of being a boy in Asturias. Asturias was a principality of what is now northwest Spain, and was the sight of vigorous Christian conversion around this time. 
> 
> The name Lazarus is taken from the Biblical account of Jesus calling to his friend Lazarus, who had died, three days after he was interred in his tomb. The account says Jesus called to his friend to come out, and Lazarus arose from his resting place and rejoined his friends and family. The monks, after having put his parents to death for paganism, renamed Lazarus and sent him to one of the missions in England, to live with and serve the monks at the monastery. The name reflects the hope and belief of the monks that a child "dead in his sin" could be reformed and brought to life through their work in God.
> 
> Helga's preoccupation with naming Salazar is a nod to the Norse poetic convention of "kenning", replacing and sometimes augmenting a single noun with a compound and often alliterative expression. It is commonly seen in Old English and Old Norse poetry.
> 
> The idea behind Salazar attempting the Lumos spell without a wand comes from the idea that magic is inherent in the wizard, and a wand is merely a conduit through which to conduct one's power safely. It would make sense, then, that some spells are easier or safer to accomplish without benefit of wand (hand magic) than others, or that a more accomplished witch or wizard would have a better result if performing the same spell without a wand.


	3. Sing, Cuckoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the early hours before dawn, Salazar feels he belongs to himself and not the monks. He is about to learn he can feel this way without the usual accompanying loneliness.

Salazar sat alone on the humble pallet that served as his bed in the lowly room. Nearby on an old stool, a single candle burned against the lonely darkness. Outside, a Nightingale trilled while the corn crakes rattled their crackling calls. It was here in the cold hours before dawn when he could imagine he belonged only to himself. It would be hours yet before the monks rose for morning prayer, but it was now that Salazar arose to tend the animals and prepare the breakfast meal. He stood, stamping his feet against the unforgiving stone to quicken the blood and help banish the cold.

Picking up the candle, he shuffled down the silent cloisters, crossing the grounds toward the low, squat building that served as the kitchen. The stars still glistened overhead, visible beyond the arches of the cloisters and far above the priory walls. He let out a breath, watching as a swirl of silvery vapor curled and rose toward the inky sky before continuing on toward his chores.

He sensed something was different before he ever saw it. A knot twisted in his core and the hair stood on the back of his neck as he neared the kitchen. It wasn't until he got closer that he saw faint flickers of light through the chinks in the door. As he stepped even closer, he could hear sweet cheerful singing mingling with the clink and clatter of utensils.

"The seed grows and the meadow blooms  
And the wood springs anew  
Sing, cuckoo!  
"The ewe bleats after the lamb  
The cow - good morning!"

Helga stopped singing and looked up as Salazar pushed the door open and entered. She stood, her face and dress flecked with bits of flour, in front of a merry fire. The whole room burst with good smells and Salazar stared wide-eyed at the narrow work table, which like all else at the monastery was usually bare, but was now crowded with fruits and pies and fresh fish. The smell of cooking meat made his mouth water.

"What is this?" He asked at length, his voice full of wonderment as he closed the door sharply behind him and watched Helga fill a platter to heaping with all the good things and set it on the work table before him.

"Breakfast." She answered simply. "Sit."

Salazar obeyed, balancing on the rickety stool at the edge of the table and casting a nervous glance to the closed door.

"If the money see this-" he began.

"Let the monks have their barley," Helga shrugged indifferently, indicating a large pot of bubbling gruel over the fire "this is for us." She cast a pointed glance at his untouched plate "if you want it."

The young man reached for a piping hot meat pie, stopping short as he regarded the woman, who seemed to almost glow in the firelight.

"I had half-convinced myself you were a dream." He confessed, taking count of the many days it had been since their first encounter. "That I should never see you again."

Helga laughed. "Did I not say I would return?" She patted the sleeves and front of her dress, sending the remnants of flour flying up in little clouds. "And as you can see, I am quite real."

Her expression darkened to one of deep concern as the man before neither ate nor moved. "Do you doubt it?"

Salazar rolled his tongue in his mouth as he contemplated the question.

"I have been alone many years now." He replied to himself as much as to her. "Pulled from my home and raised by priests who believe their cruelty brings them closer to God."

He looked at her as if afraid to believe his own eyes.

"Would it not make sense to imagine something so wholly different? Someone kind? Gentle? Would it not make sense to imagine a feast amidst deprivation?"

There was a silence between them, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant calls of the nightingale.

Helga leaned against the table, resting her elbows on its surface and meeting his gaze squarely. She seemed to see deep into him, her features full of compassion.

"I am sorry for your loneliness."

Her voice was soft. It washed over Salazar like a warm breeze in summer. He reached forward, placing his hand on her own, assuring himself she was more than his imagination; more than just a dream of a warm kitchen and a fair friend in the cold and lonely darkness.

"Who are you, Helga?" He asked plaintively, desperate to understand.

Helga straightened, her eyes once again twinkling.

"Eat." She ordered "and I will tell you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun history stuff!
> 
> The song Helga sings is an excerpt from "Sumer is incumen in" the earliest existing example of an English song. The written song dates to the mid 13th century and is sung in a round, making it an anachronistic addition to the story but, I justified to myself, just because the writing is from the 13th century does not preclude the possibility that the song itself, or a variation of it, existed far earlier. Interestingly enough, this song is also the earliest occurrence we have of the word "fart".
> 
> Salazar is entranced by the feast laid before him, and rightfully so. The early medieval diet of the era would have been heavily grain based, with the additions of vegetables, eggs, and possibly dried fish and some meat (meat was more common among the nobility, who could afford to invest in and raise livestock, fish would have been more accessible, but could come at a premium if it had to be preserved and carried inland. Game, or hunted meat, was also far more common among the gentry than the lower classes). The diet for the average monk at the time would have been even more restrictive, with limits on the consumption of meat throughout the year, including periods of fasting where nothing would be consumed from dawn til dusk. The smell of any kind of meat cooking would certainly have seemed and odd luxury to a 10th century monks' servant.


	4. A Dangerous Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena takes Helga into her confidence, confessing her plans and hopes for the future and asking a dangerous favor of her friend.

Helga straightened, heaving a sigh and stretching hands above her head toward the blue heavens. Spring was coming in warm bright, and the smell of wet soil and new growth filled the air. Dirt covered her hands, caking under her fingernails, and her skirts and shoes were heavy with mud. Her hair hung loosely around her, fallen free of of her braids and the same hue as the dark, rich earth she loved so well. She closed her eyes, tilting her face to the sun and spreading her arms wide as though to embrace the whole of the great sky.

“Helga.” A woman's voice called to her, shaking her from her silent meditation. She turned to see the tall, statuesque figure of Rowena smiling at her, her midnight eyes dancing against her fair skin. Rowena's silken hair in its elaborate plaits, shone in the sun like a jackdaw's wing and, only for a moment, Helga felt a twinge of embarassment at her untidy appearance.

“How are you fairing?” Rowena asked.

A grin spread across Helga's face. “Is the world ever so beautiful as in spring?”

“Come inside before you go.” The elegant woman beckoned toward the castle that stood shining on the green hillside.

Helga dropped her arms, picked up the basket of cuttings and bulbs she had harvested from Rowena's garden, and followed her friend toward the door.

The white walls of Castle Ravenclaw's kitchen gleamed in the indirect morning sun filtering through the windows. A fire blazed in the massive hearth for, though the world outside was warm with life, the interior of the castle still sat in the chill damp of winter. The house elves had vacated the room for the time being, allowing the mistress of the castle to entertain her friend, who felt much more at ease in the kitchens than any of the vast halls of the manor. Helga stood near a window, flicking her wand at patches of mud and dirt, clearing them instantly from her simple brown surcoat. A brush floated mid air, smoothing her tresses as she examined her reflection in the glass, carefully retying her plaits.

“Do you think I should lighten my hair?” She asked on a whim. “It is the fashion for Northmen and women to be fair.”

Rowena laughed. “I do sometimes forget for all your scrabbling in the dirt, you do have the Dane vanity.”

Helga turned her head, making a face and sticking out her tongue playfully at her friend.

“You are young enough yet to indulge it.” Rowena conceded. “But I like your dark hair.”

“You are only a few small years older than I.” Helga pointed out, finishing with her primping. She crossed the wide kitchen, taking the tankard of warm meade Rowena offered and sitting in one of the grand chairs in front of the fire. “The difference between us is only you never had to worry about being beautiful.”

Rowena settled herself. “Beauty is a fleeting and cheap currency in this world.”

“You would not say that if your marriage had not been secured early.” Helga retorted. 

“If you lived here with me, I would have no trouble settling a match for you.” Rowena assured matter-of-factly. “But you insist on living in your little village with the unmagicked.”

“I will not leave my home.” Helga ended the familiar argument before Rowena had a chance to begin it. 

There was a silence as Helga turned the tankard in her hand, letting its warmth seep into her fingertips and Rowena stared pensively into the fire.

“Where do they think you go?” Rowena asked at length. “The villagers. When you visit me? Surely you don't tell them you are away to the other side of the country in the blink of an eye.”

“I tell them I am foraging in the forest.” Helga replied, relaxing her body against the chair. “Which is not a lie, given the state of your garden.” she added cheekily.

“Do they not question you?” The lady of the castle pried. 

Helga laughed in exasperation. 

“I know the unmagicked far better than you, Rowena.” She waved aside the concern. “I am in no danger.”

The answer did little to appease the raven-haired woman. Helga measured her friend's countenance in silence, watching her trace a line across her lips in thought with one of her long, slender fingers.

“You are troubled.” It was neither question nor accusation, but a simple statement that broke the stillness.

“Am I?” Rowena looked to her younger counterpart.

“Yes.” Helga continued simply, her expression gentle, her eyes full of concern. “What worries you so?”

Rowena heaved a sigh.

“The world is changing.”

“The world doesn't change.” Helga huffed a snort of derision, waving her free hand non-chalantly as the other raised the tankard to her mouth. “Or it does,” she corrected with disinterest. “but predictably, as the tides.”

Rowena shook her head, her eyes fixed on the fire, her diadem glittering in the flickering light.

“England is unified.”

“By whose estimation?” Helga nearly laughed, her voice thick with the accent of her native language. “The Danes and Saxons have lost no joy in killing one another. The land is still rent by raids and incursions.”

“English rule has encompassed Danelaw for nearly fifty years now.” Rowena seemed shocked by the response. “And as their Christianity spreads the rope tightens ever more around our necks.”

“It has been the same for hundreds of years.” Helga shook her head in the manner of a person resigned but hopeful. “There has always been a place for us among the unmagicked.”

“Even the Northmen have little use for their seers. I shouldn't need to tell you.” Rowena nearly spat the words and Helga bristled. “Are we to die in the birth of this new world?”

“What would you propose?” The Dane motioned before her, as though demanding Rowena to produce a solution from her surcoat.

“A unified people.” She proposed. “Even now Lord Ravenclaw is away, meeting with the heads of prominent wizarding households, forming an alliance stronger than any our history has known.”

“To what purpose? Would he set himself as king?” Helga cracked a skeptical smile, “A Raven King to stand against Edward and Aethelred and the Danes and whoever else would rule this land?”

“He has no interest in power to rule.” the lady assured her, shaking her head. “Merely to unite our people to survive, even thrive in this new order.” Her voice softened. “We have long been alone in our ways. But to unite as one people... with magic the common thread binding us all together.”

There was silence as the words echoed, fell, and were absorbed. 

“Why do you tell me this?” Helga asked finally.

“Because you are a river, Helga.” Rowena smiled. “Deeper and stronger than you appear. And because you are my dearest friend and I would have your blessing.”

“Well, you have it.” She conceded with a wry smile, raising her tankard in a facetious toast. “Much good may it do you.”

“And because I would ask something of you.” Rowena continued quickly. There was more silence as Helga's quick hazel eyes regarded the woman with such intensity it made her shift. “My husband is ambitious, but lacks foresight.. A united people, a council of warlocks to bring us together, may protect us as we are, but what of the future? As the Christians sharpen their swords and bury their pikes to hang us upon, how will we continue to hold to our ways as we have? To teach our children? To allow them to grow unafraid of who and what they are?”

“You have an answer for this, too.” Helga presumed.

“A school, Helga.” Rowena's expression crackled with vision and fervor, her eyes sparking as brightly as the diadem across her forehead. “Far away from the prying eyes and blind fear of the unmagicked. Hidden from their eyes in much the same way as Castle Ravenclaw is hiddin upon this hillside. A place where the young can grow, and learn.”

“You mean hide ourselves? Remove our children from the sight of the world?”

“Give them a place where they don't have to hide.” the Lady Ravenclaw corrected. “Where they are safe and accepted.” She straightened, fixing the younger woman with a pointed look. 

“No doubt you have friends in your village, Helga, but how many of them know what you truly are?” she shook her head. “Make no mistake my dear heart, you are as hidden away in your little village as I am here in Castle Ravenclaw.”

It was the second time a blow had landed in the conversation, and in the moment, Helga resented the sight through which her friend viewed her, and how deftly able she was to level a cutting remark to make a point. Helga breathed deeply.

“And what would you ask of me?” 

“Every school needs its first pupil.” Rowena began. “I have searched the country; exhausted my knowledge of seeking spells and revealing incantations, to find the perfect mind with the potential to become great.”

A great peal of laughter erupted from Helga. 

“Have you found anyone to suit your vanity?” She chortled. 

“I have.” Rowena smirked. She rubbed her hands together stiffly“ A young man. Cloistered, quite literally, away among monks in Wessex.

Her words came slowly and carefully as she continued. She licked her lips dryly, as if bracing herself for the reaction her request would illicit. “ As I lack your understanding of the unmagicked, I would ask you to bring him here, if he is agreeable.”

The silence was so great between them it felt suffocating. Helga stared in shock. Rowena barely dared to meet her friend's gaze.

“You would ask me,” Helga began quietly, her voice growing rapidly in volume and force, “a Dane and and witch, to fetch you a whelp from a den of Saxon monks, so that you can train it up for the pleasure of your own wit? Are you mad?”

Her voice echoed through the room, but Rowena did not quail. Helga's rage, though it could be fierce, was short lived, and her heart always soft to right purpose.

“He is alone, Helga.” Rowena's voice was soft and she leaned toward her imploringly. “I have seen it. He has no one and as his power grows it will surely reveal itself and then what?”

She waited, allowing her words space for their full weight to land. Helga seemed to soften.

“Will he be dragged through the mud and beaten by the brothers who raised him from infancy? Will his last look upon the walls that should have protected him be from a pike as he is hammered to it and hanged for being a demon?” Rowena continued.

Helga swallowed, choking back a tightness in her throat, knowing all too well the fates awaiting a wizard so vulnerable. 

Rowena took her hand, warm from the fire. “Would you leave him there?”

Helga cast her eyes upon the floor, her face burning, a battle raging within her. She knew she was being manipulated; knew Rowena asked such a task of her out of fear of doing it herself, her knowledge of all possibilities keeping her from acting.

“Is there no one else?” She asked, her voice hoarse. “Godric?”

Rowena shook her head. “Godric is too brash. I could not trust him with this. Such a task requires gentility, a quick mind, and understanding.”

Helga's heart thrummed in her ears. The comfort of the fire waned and its heat felt suddenly stifling. She considered the proposition laid in front of her, hating Rowena for knowing exactly how to sway her, hating herself for being an easy target, hating what was being asked of her as much as she hated that she could not refuse.

When she spoke, her voice was small, yet determined.

“What must I do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun historical stuff:
> 
> Rowena teases Helga for having "A Dane's Vanity." While Vikings are often portrayed in modern stories as lumbering, stinking, and unwashed barbarians, the reality is they kept themselves impeccably. Lightening the hair was common place among both men and women, as were plaits or elaborate hairstyles. Vikings washed regularly, even as much as once a week, and were concerned about their bodily odor and appearance. Combs and other personal grooming items have been found in the burial sites of both male and female Vikings.
> 
> Helga mocks the idea of a unified England, and the idea of Lord Ravenclaw setting himself as a king against Edward and Aethelred. In the late 10th century following the of Edgar the Peaceful, the leadership of England was hotly contested, with some supporting Edward the Martyr's claim while others argued for his younger half-brother Aethelred, who was recognized as a legitimate child of Edgar. Edward was crowned king in July of 975 AD with the support of the archbishops of Canterbury and Worcester. His reign would only last three years, however, as he would fall to an assassination attempt by supporters of his half-brother Aethelred, though Aethelred, being only 12 at the time, would have been too young to have been directly involved. Helga's mention that the Saxons and Danes lose no joy in killing one another is a reference to the fact that, after years of relative peace, the passing of Edgar and uneasy transfer of power between his sons made way for new incursions and Viking raids. It is also reasonable to suspect that fighting between Danes and Saxons, though officially ended, continued in smaller, more isolated incidents, particularly along the borders of what was considered then to be England and Danelaw (or Daneland). Helga is from a village along this border, and thus would be no stranger to both English and Viking cultures, as well as the continued animosity between peoples.


End file.
